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Inside the boxthe cat is aliveand the cat is not alivebut Schrodinger is deador the idea of Schrodinger is dead.

We walking into the store –he was sitting, rough hewn facein hands, staring at a table covering,ignoring our approach. Hebarely looked up when we paidwhen the clerk gingerlycarried him to the office to waitfor our car, he sat in a cornerhis back to the room.Now he sits beside the oldFranklin stove, tucking intothe fireplace that has nevertasted flame, gone through life flue-less.He stares intently into the room,watching all come, all go.You suspect you see a faint smilecrease his hardwood, carved lips –he reflects you.

We walking into the store –there was a too large bamboo tabletwo folding chairs, a rainbowedNepalese table cover.The masks on the wall keepwatchful eye on us as we strollamong scarves, hats, wooden boxes.New hat on my balding headwe walked slowly out of the storedebating the purchase of a maskwhich remained moot, opinionless.Home, later, I sit beside the fireplaceand absentmindedly touch the Franklin stove,stare into the roomwatching no one come, no one go.I am smiling, orI am not smiling, here insideSchrodinger’s box.